


Lath'enansalen

by jillyfae



Series: together we are stronger than the one [6]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, POV First Person, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 07:25:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17219531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: "heart's blessings"Blackwall cannot promise Lavellan forever, but he can be there with her today. That's enough, no matter what anyone else tries to say about it.





	Lath'enansalen

_Creators forgive me, I'm in love with a human._

And everyone knows.

And everyone _talks about it._

It's not as if The People don't gossip, as if we don't have more than our fair share of politics, questions of power and influence and duty and friendships and rivalries and romances between Firsts and Hahrens, scouts and teachers, Clan to Clan. But it's different when it's _shem,_ when none of the accents are right, and so few of the words. It's different when it's so very often about _sex._ It startles, whispers of Grey Warden stamina and exotic Dalish techniques that die down whenever the speakers notice me, embarrassed blushes and mutters replacing them as they pretend to focus on anything and everything else near-by. But few enough people remember to look _up,_ even in a place like Skyhold, and I have heard more than I would have preferred, carried by evening breezes up to my favorite perches. It is somehow unsurprising that this is something my ears would decide to have no trouble hearing.

At least the stables are safe, the grooms and keepers having adopted Blackwall under their care, ignoring all whispers and rumours attempting to pass the weathered planks of their walls. They stomp quite loudly whenever they must walk by or through Blackwall's work-room, and thump the ceiling with their fists before they climb up to the hayloft. They are kind, and it is difficult not to smile at the earnest way the youngest stable-boy always stares at the toes of his boots when he sees me there, so determined not to intrude.

I have extra reasons to enjoy the stable roof, the quiet below almost as beautiful as the expanse of sky above, almost as beautiful as the company I keep.

The quiet in the library is not so kind, the taut silence of held-in whispers following me as I walk through the shelves.

Dorian, of course, refrains from quiet. And would never let me remain ignorant of the... _choicest_ rumors, his smirk bright and his arms spread wide as he repeats them. _Such deplorable behavior,_ he proclaims, even as he appears to indulge in it himself. But his eyes are soft, and the silence around us deepens as a few shamed heads bow, and I know he worries, the ridiculous man, that I should let my heart make such choices for me.

He refrains from doing so in front of Blackwall at least, for which I am grateful. Blackwall stomps loudly enough after Sera teases him about them, his shoulders hunched and hands tight. They bother him, in a way they do not me, in a way I have yet to quite understand. They bring his shadows closer to the surface.

My shadows feel thinner now than I would have ever thought possible. Sometimes it makes me want to laugh, to shake my head. How strange is the world, and however did I end up here? However did here end up with me? However did here fill up with people _gossiping about me_? I wonder how they _come up with them,_ these soldiers and merchants and refugees who somehow find my every word and deed worthy of interest.

I wonder if they would be disappointed to know the truth.

For all I can feel heat pressing up beneath his skin until we are both full of it, for all there is nothing I enjoy so much as the feel of his shoulders or back beneath my fingers, we are not intimate in the way so many seem to expect.

I have seldom been particularly interested in sex, for all I knew I ought to have married and added children to the Clan. But now that guilt is lost, one small shred of quiet relief amongst all the other worries, and I find myself wondering if, perhaps, with him it might be different.

Perhaps I just needed my heart to ache, before my body would follow.

_My heart aches so much more than is wise._

I love his hands, that never pause before they touch me. He doesn't touch me like anyone I've known, not like friends or family or Clan, not even like those few who wanted things other than friendship. Almost shy, no matter how many times I invite him closer, each slight touch so very gentle, as if to make up for the feel of the skin on his hands, thick and hard and calloused. Not that I begrudge the weight of his life, the marks of his labor, but it clearly bothers _him._ His touch almost catches against my skin, almost jealous, never willing to let go, not completely. His hands are different than a hunter's hands, or even the other soldiers I've been forced to know in this Inquisition. He shrugged when I tried to ask him, his palm held loosely between my hands, just one almost as broad as both my hands together. I want to know every step that led him here, to me, but I let him go as he pulled his hand back, and have not asked again.

There are many things he is not ready to tell me. There are things I don't know how to tell him, either, but it doesn't bother me. It does not make the current path less valuable, just because there's so much more left to go.

When he ducks his head before he drinks, or turns away from my face to look in the fire, it seems he is afraid of the twists in our path. I wonder what he thinks is beyond them. Sometimes I can see his hands turn at his sides as if he wants to touch, but cannot quite make himself reach towards me; I cannot tell if he is afraid for me, or of himself.

Sometimes I see his shadow across a doorway, made long and narrow by the angle of the sun, and the air goes too thin in my throat and my hands reach for my daggers, because I am afraid, so afraid, of what can happen to The People when surrounded by _shem'len_. Especially ones so dedicated to their Maker.

But then it is _Blackwall,_ not a _shem,_ and I step close enough to feel the warmth of his body, to lean against the solid weight of his chest, to remember that I love him, because and in spite of the fact that he isn't one of The People.

Because and in spite of the weight of his secrets, so like and unlike my own.

I wonder if he was a murderer, before the Wardens. They say they give the condemned another chance, something worth dying for beyond their petty crimes. I wonder if they would have given _me_ a second chance, if I'd been caught, if there'd ever been a Warden to stand between me and a lynching.

Somehow I don't think so.

Unless of course it was Blackwall. I can't imagine a version of our lives where he doesn't look so carefully, so thoroughly, at everyone before him. He would not have wasted someone as angry as I used to be, not when that anger could be turned against the 'spawn.

I wonder who Warden Erana would have been, fifteen years of her anger being encouraged rather than soothed, surrounded by _shem_ instead of family, the beast let free instead of hobbled. I am not sure I would like that Erana, or that Blackwall could love her, but oh, the _shem'len_ never would have ignored her. Never would have been safe from her.

I'm not sure why that makes me smile, the sort of smile that makes most everyone look away from me, eyes dropping too quickly towards the ground.

Except for Blackwall. He was never _shem'len._ He never expects me to be something I'm not. The rest of them seem to try to forgot what I am when I'm not staring at them, forget elf, forget _Dalish,_ forget the flare of the mark in favor of Inquisitor, of treaties and troops, of _Lady Lavellan._ Blackwall calls me his lady, but when he says it I feel warm, cherished. Not like those human titles, pushing against me, everyone trying to shove me in a human box to make themselves more comfortable.

I love his eyes, pale and sad and always willing to meet mine. Even when the air is dark and the shine flares up bright enough I can feel the shadows move as I look at them, as I look at him. His eyes are as old as any Hahren I've ever met, and he never looks away.

Or if he does it is because of the heat behind them, because he sees me before him and wants to see more, never less. I wonder if there is a _more_ that I could give him that would ever be enough. A more that could be too much?

I cannot imagine not wanting more of him, every touch, every breath, every day.

I cannot ever seem to ask him that, can never really be sure of what my question is, much less what answer I want to hear, to feel. Luckily it is not a question I need to voice, not yet. He holds himself back from it, goes so far as to leave my company sometimes when the fire behind his eyes is too bright.

He has ducked his head in more than one mountain stream, which is a sight I enjoy as well, the shudder of his back at the shock of it, the way his face eases as he stands, the way the water catches in his hair, darkening the black and making the threads of grey shine in the light.

Sometimes, he notices me watching him, and I can catch the glint of water in his eyelashes as he looks at me, and there is heat beneath his eyes again, and then he swears, and I have to swallow an absurd bubble of laughter as he turns around and stomps back to the stream for another attempt.

Usually I am kind enough to turn away, so as not to distract him again.

Only once am I not, once do I stay, enjoying his mostly amused frustration too much to leave, until he goes back four times, and I lose all ability at feigned composure, falling back against the sun-warmed rock behind me, laughing so hard I'm not sure I quite remember how to breathe.

I feel the weight of him against the ground as he marches over to me, can sense the low growl of his breath through the air between us, but all I can do is gasp as he picks me up and carts me over his shoulder to the middle of the pond.

I shriek as I fall, loudly enough I'm surprised the mountain doesn't slide down upon us, and he laughs, even louder, louder than I've ever heard, not just his usual soft rumbling chuckle, and I'm smiling as I gasp again from the cold, and then I'm sputtering and coughing and laughing, bright and ragged, even as I'm trying to find my feet and push hair out of my eyes.

He helps, fingers catching on new damp tangles no matter how carefully he smooths his hand back, and then his palm rests against my cheek, cooler than the usual heat of his skin on mine, but still warm, and I sigh, and my eyes close as I lean into his touch.

He grunts, low in his chest, so low I can feel it, though not quite hear it. His fingers curl against my skin, and I am painfully aware of wet leathers and clinging linens and one shockingly cold drop of water working its way past my collar and down my spine.

"You are not usually so cruel, my lady."

I open my eyes, so close to his face for a moment I can see nothing but a blur of skin and hair and a sharp pale gaze; I have to take a breath before I can focus, can see the way the skin beside his eyes is too tight, his lips are too thin, the spread of a flush across his cheeks.

"I did not ask you to leave." I let my hand rest against his chest, fingers spread as if there was some way to encompass the strength of his heartbeat, the breadth of his chest, with but a single hand. "I am not the one who sent you to the pond."

Something hardens behind his eyes, brittle and terrible, and the weight of it fills his face, pushes out, until his cheekbones seem too pale and sharp, weapons poised to strike. "Perhaps you should."

"How can I?" My voice is thick, and my free hand reaches up, fingers paused just before his lips. "What part of me could ever wish to see you go?"

I lean in closer, and I am not sure if I should shiver or burn as his hands slide to my hips to hold me close against him, without pause or thought, as if he cannot help it. Something kindles in my chest, low in my stomach, heat and want and worry.

His hands tighten, even as his head shakes, as his mouth opens, and I know he is going to try and argue with me again. But my hands are in his hair now, thick and coarse against my knuckles, and I kiss him, our lips cool from the water and the air, my arms pulling me closer, my body pressed to his, the rumble of his rough groan pressing against the unsteady rhythm of my heart.

I can feel the catch of his breath before his lips move against mine, before he kisses me back, hard and hot and my feet are numb and my mouth burns, and ...

He pulls his mouth away from mine, _breaks_ away, and I feel it like the first crack of ice across a Vinmark lake in spring, deep and echoing.

My eyes close, my fingers curl, tight and tighter still, 'til I hear the hiss of his breath at the pain as his hair pulls.

_If you cannot make yourself leave, please, please, why do you refuse to stay?_

I let go, step back, feel the water part slowly around us. I wish I could leave, if he will not, but I don't, I can't, _I never want to leave,_ but it _hurts,_ this endless terrible balance, and I am afraid, so afraid that when one of us finally falls it will be too far; we will not stand again.

I hear his voice, no words, not yet, just a rough breath, and I shake my head, my eyes still closed. I cannot trust myself if he apologizes again. I want to slap him, knee him in the stomach, _knee him somewhere lower,_ force him to react, to say, to do ... _something._

_But what if his choice is to finally turn away completely?_

I growl, frustration twisting in my chest, and I turn around, _away_ , blink my eyes at light on water, at light bouncing off ripples, dancing around me. I hear 'Aral's laugh in my head, his offer to stab Blackwall for me, _carefully I promise_ lethallan, _no terribly important organs, just enough he can't stagger off. How does that sound?_

I am laughing, weak and restless, hand lifting to cover my mouth, _oh that sounds perfect, ma serannas._

"Erana." My laugh is gone, as sharp and clean a break as a freshly cut rope at the sound of my name, so rare these days, at the barest brush of his fingertips against my shoulder. _Butterfly kisses,_ Nala always called such things, the touch so light you felt it against your heart more than your skin.

_Does she still? Or is her heart too dark to feel such things, after..._

My tears are almost as cold as the lake, each breath a stab in my chest, cold and hot and _pain;_ I have not let myself cry for them before.

_I am sorry, sorry, I am..._

I have never cried for myself before.

Perhaps I am flying, but it is warm, not cold as the air above the mountains must surely be, and there is Blackwall's heartbeat, steady and familiar, and the rest of the world faded and echoing, too far away to bother me, and still I am sobbing, my face pressed to his shoulder as he carries me out of the water.

We stop moving, and the sun is hot and his body surrounds me, warm and solid, and I feel his lips press to the top of my head, and then there is nothing but his heartbeat and his breath and my tears.

After, when my head hurts and my fingers grip too tight, he is still there, his hand soothing up and down my back. I lift my head and his face is too still, too sad, and his lips are cool when I kiss him. 

I pull myself closer, push harder against him, and his breath is hot as his lips part for me, as he lets me in; his tongue is in my mouth and I make a noise I've never heard before, need caught in my throat, in the scratch of my nails against his skin as my fingers curl through his hair, as I pull myself closer, _closer,_ pressed against him as hard as I can and it's still not enough, never enough, _please, Blackwall, more._

His arms are as hard as ironbark around me, holding me together, holding me in place, but even as my breath burns in my chest his lips soften, and his voice is warm against my skin when he speaks.

"I am sorry for all you've lost, my lady."

I press my forehead against his temple, shudder out something that is almost a sigh. "I don't want to lose you, too." _I don't know if I could bear it._

"I cannot promise you tomorrow."

I squeeze my eyes tight, and swallow hard, not sure if it's a sob or a scream that I can't let free.

"But I am here for you today." His voice is steady, his heartbeat even, and I know that if he could hold time still for me, he would. "And my heart will always be yours."

"Prefer to keep all of you, _vhenan_ , not just your heart."

He laughs at the pout in my voice, a warm chuckle that eases the last of my shivers. I shift my weight enough that I can relax, legs sprawled as I lean against his chest.

"Let's not go back to camp, not yet." _Stay with me, as long as you can._

"Of course." His hand rubs along my arm, and his breath is just heavy enough I can feel it against my hair. We stay like that, as the sunlight slowly fades, and we both pretend that our peace will last forever.

It won't, but I will treasure it forever. No matter what tomorrow brings, today is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> [post on tumblr](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/181538063773)


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